American Football: Domination

Huff. Huff.

The air burned, each breath like smoke and gunpowder. His ears rang, chest heaving, his body halting for just an instant as his legs braked.

At top speed, Lance cut with precision—another sudden stop, slipping past the defender skidding out of control.

So close, a brush of shoulders.

He held his breath, every muscle straining, stealing that heartbeat's pause to reset. He watched terror twist across the other man's face as it whipped past him.

Dodged.

Then—restart.

From zero, he exploded again. Every ounce of energy poured into acceleration, toes stabbing the turf, a sprinter loosed at full tilt.

But no time to breathe—another white jersey was already streaking toward him, matching his steps stride for stride.

Odum's calves trembled.

He had position, he had leverage—or so he thought. The moment he closed on Lance, he felt it: the torrent of speed and strength cascading over him like a flood. His body buckled, stumbling, lurching.

The 15-yard line slid beneath them.

Odum clung to him, but his legs felt like they weren't even touching the ground, as if gravity had abandoned him. He was being dragged, dangling helplessly like Bran Stark strapped to another man's back.

Panic set in.

And then Lance braked. Again.

Odum: ???

He blinked. Lance wasn't backing up—he was. His own body was being thrown backward, stagger after stagger, distance widening.

He flailed for balance, skidding, finally halting—just in time to see Lance accelerate again, a storm breaking loose.

The 10-yard line vanished behind them. Odum pushed to chase, but the world blurred into streaks of green and red, like film fast-forwarded tenfold.

The 5-yard line. His lungs burned, chest caving in. He could barely keep stride. Ahead, that red No. 23 blazed like a flame, close yet impossibly far.

Faster. Farther. He reached, desperate—

Too late.

One man alone, unstoppable.

And then—Lance was standing in the end zone.

Effortless. Irresistible. A knife straight into the Colts' heart.

He turned, facing the field. Calm, unshaken, eyes sharp. Yes, he panted, sweat poured, his face flushed red—but there was no weakness in it. Only joy. Release. A force that filled the stadium.

He stood tall in the end zone, towering over the defenders left choking on his dust.

Odum foremost among them.

Then Lance lifted a single finger.

Odum froze. He realized Lance wasn't even looking at him. His gaze cut past—toward Leonard, stopped not far away.

A finger wag.

You're not enough.

Drive straight through, strike to the heart—

Another touchdown.

Felix could no longer contain himself. His fists clenched tight, tears glittering as his chest shook with raw life, blood roaring in his ears. Finally, the fear, the weakness, all the weight he had borne since last Sunday—burst free.

He screamed.

Anger. Grief. Despair. But also will. Fire. Hope.

His voice cracked but soared.

"He's here, he's there, he's everywhere—he's the Edge Runner—Lance! Lance! Lance!"

Karen's heart jolted.

She felt the mess in that cry—the fear tucked beneath it. For a moment it drowned her too, made her feel tiny, powerless.

But only for a moment.

She drew in breath. Lifted her chin. Looked at the screen.

Felix hadn't quit. Lance hadn't quit. So neither could she.

Even if the end was written, they could still embrace every heartbeat left.

Right?

One voice. Then another. Louder. Stronger. Karen screamed too, pouring her soul into that name.

Arrowhead burned.

"…Wow, what an atmosphere."

"Tonight the Chiefs show fire, fighting spirit—you can feel their hunger for victory, like men clawing free of death itself."

"No one saw this coming—the reigning champs fighting with this kind of ferocity."

"They're not waiting for the Colts to strike—they're the ones attacking, from the first snap, playing with absolute conviction."

"The real question now—did Indianapolis expect hardship, but not like this?"

"And I don't mean the score."

"True, they trail, but only by a touchdown. There's time left. Stories still to be written. That's not the point."

"The point is the state of things."

"The Colts' defense is shattered. In two drives, they've been crushed in every way. Run, pass, doesn't matter—they've had no answer, not even one clean tackle. Chaos everywhere."

"From schemes to reactions, nothing works. Even Leonard, usually their bright spot, has been swallowed whole by the Chiefs' onslaught."

"Fragile. Shattered."

"This is more than just falling behind—it's a disaster."

"So what now?"

"How does Reich adjust? If the Colts can't muster a defense, they'll drown in Kansas City's flood."

"And trust me—that's the last thing Reich wants to see."